


The Lover's Dictionary

by jigglyjelly28



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Draco Malfoy, Adult Hermione Granger, Already Together, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, Miscarriage, POV Draco Malfoy, Suggestive Themes, The Lover's Dictionary, Well it's based off The Lover's Dictionary, dictionary-style, dramione - Freeform, hermione granger - Freeform, ministry workers, post—hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jigglyjelly28/pseuds/jigglyjelly28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written through a series of dictionary-style entries, Draco and Hermione's relationship is explored from the beginning to the end, from Draco's perspective.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aberrant

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is based on The Lover's Dictionary by David Levithan. In no way do I own it, the characters or the story; most of the definitions and words are of my own, but some words used may be the same as used in the actual book. As far as I know, this idea hasn't been done before, but I hope that doesn't mean it's because it's bad.
> 
> The entries will almost always be this length, if not shorter, if not longer. Time may also skip forwards or backwards between each dictionary definition as well; I'd like that to be known now to avoid any confusion, but I'll always do a reminder before each chapter if it applies to this.

**Aberrant** , _adj_

You thought that it was a joke when I asked you to dinner one summer afternoon at work. You still do, I think. We never really spoke before that; we weren’t even in the same department. But we had inter-department relations, and my correspondents were always near your office; you were never seen with someone who even came _close_ to me. You always began and ended the day with someone different: interns, colleagues from your own department, or those who didn’t even need to correspond with yours, who must’ve gotten lost or deliberately visited. They were always nice men: clean shaven, slicked-back hair, casually dressed – and, as far as my knowledge spanned, they were free of criminal records.

Still, you said yes to me. And the time after that, and again and again and again. It was me who thought it was a joke that time, the first date having gone disastrously, but maybe that’s what made you want to try again and again – to see if it’d keep going downhill. You found it funny; perhaps, because it made you better than I am (even though it was widely accepted that you were, at that point) or because it was like seeing an alien trying to pretend to be human. I worried that you weren’t going to stick around when they began to improve - when cutlery ceased being knocked to the floor, when our noses wouldn’t smash together, when we both didn’t get food poisoning or catch the flu having to wait for a taxi back to mine in the rain – but at that point it didn’t seem to be the content of the date for the reason that you were sticking around and repeatedly saying “ _yes_ ”.

Maybe you did it to prove a point to everyone that it could work out, that just because I wasn’t the one of the regular types didn’t mean that I couldn’t become one.


	2. Acuity

**Acuity** , _n_  
  
There was a small almost-dent in the skin of your forehead, almost in your hairline. “Chicken pox scar,” you had told me, and though I didn’t know what that was exactly (I assumed that it was similar to Dragon Pox, though maybe less deadly), you felt the need to explain it to me.  
  
I noticed then the way that you spoke, without really looking at me; all avoided eye contact and small gesticulations, so that you didn’t draw attention to yourself. I had pointed it out to you once, and for a few weeks after that, you were keenly aware of what your hands were doing when speaking. I had felt regretful over that, and even missed it, but knew that it was never going to come back the way that it used to be. All too soon I was listening without really listening, and I think you knew, but it didn’t stop you from barrelling on; though, a rosy colour bloomed from beneath your cheeks and flowed down to your neck, and possibly even further. I heard the breath that you released once you realised that my ignorance had crossed over into being a nuisance, and the snap that you added to your voice, still not ceasing the explanation of the fascinating _Chicken Pox_.  
  
There was a birthmark at the top of your thigh shaped rather like a strawberry, though you just had to disagree; I liked to bite it as if it was one. Your top lip was much thinner than your bottom one, though having a plump bottom-lip wasn’t a problem; it was arousing when you bit it and it was arousing when I bit it, but it made your overbite rather noticeable, to me. It was curious, considering that your parents were dentists, and something that I imagined you were particularly insecure about; I never pointed it out to you, and never would.  
  
What you liked to call the “moons”(I informed you that the technical term was _lunula,_ but that didn’t change anything, and I suppose you _were_ right; it was _‘little moon’_ in Latin) on your fingernails weren’t visible, and the nail polish on your toenails had been unchanged for months and was almost completely chipped away. There were five freckles on your face, none close to each other and none on the rest of your body (I had explored it _that_ intensely), and you told me that it was because you had been kissed by fairies. I wondered why they hadn’t kissed you anywhere else, or why they had stopped, but I was reminded that it only meant that there was more places for me to kiss and leave my own mark.  
  
You thought that I was a nuisance when I didn’t make the bed every morning, lining corner to corner up perfectly, even if we were only going to fall back into it and mess it up again less than an hour later. You didn’t like it if my shoes, when I kicked them off, weren’t neatly lined up, heel-to-heel in the hallway, next to yours. If I forgot to hang my coat or blazer up, you’d remind me of it for days. You could tell if I accidentally made your tea wrong, putting in a little _too much_ milk and not enough sugar, and your lips would always pull down at the corner, but you’d continue to sip it until it was finished anyway. Everything in the house was always straight, perpendicular to each other, so much so that I had thought you had _feng shui_ issues when we moved in together, but I see now that it surpasses that. You’ve made it look as if no one lives here, as if this is a show-home and not _our_ home.  
  
Eventually you had stopped talking, and though I had noticed, I had done nothing to confirm that I was aware that you had given up. Or finished.  
  
With only a distressed exhale, you left the kitchen.


	3. Adamant

**Adamant** , _adj_

“You could do so much better than me,” I had told you, pressing the frozen peas harder into my jaw. “You don’t deserve this.”

It wasn’t a new thing for you to have heard; there was always someone saying it around every corner, whispering it to you when I wasn’t in the room, giving us looks. Once, one of your colleagues had said it, stopping by my office for that sole purpose.

You didn’t talk to her anymore.

“You’re right,” you said. “I _don’t.”_

I didn’t know whether this was it or not. We’d been together for little more than two weeks, and this seemed like the fatal flaw, the hamartia, that would push you into leaving.

It didn’t quite seem like it though. You didn’t get up and go; you only continued to delicately scrap the dried and drying blood off my face with a wet flannel. Was I supposed to make a decision for you? What was there left to say to you?

“So,” I said, my tongue thick and useless in my mouth, “you should leave.”

“No. Shut up.”

You didn’t leave that night, and I thought that it was because you were still trying to prove something to everyone, to those people who _told_ you that I was going to fuck it all up. And I did. Repeatedly. Later, a week or so after, when it happened again, you wondered why you would want anyone better than me, and I knew that we were going to be alright.


	4. Adronitis

**Adronitis** , _n_  
  
We both suffered from this, I think. You more than me.  
  
You always seemed to be watching me, watching the things that I did and the things that I didn’t do, logging into your memory repeated patterns or actions – and frowning. I pretended not to notice, of course, and answered every personal or unusual or otherwise question you asked me with faked naivety to preserve your dignity. You wanted to learn quickly. I was more patient; learning about you from the way you learned about me.  
  
“Adronitis,” you said, giving me a word for what you were feeling, giving me an excuse for the way you were behaving. It sounded like a disease. “We’re getting old, and I don’t want to waste my life.”  
  
“We’re not old,” I said. “We have decades.”  
  
“Maybe. What’s the most embarrassing thing that has happened to you?”  
  
“ _Well…”_  
  
Once, you had chalked it up to not wanting to be new and awkward with each other, seeing as we’d known one another long enough that we _should’ve_ been old and comfortable and weary of each other. You wanted to start in the middle, in the core – to the heart of the matter, so to speak – and work ourselves out. Another time you said that it was because it felt like you already knew me from what you’d seen at school, and what had happened during the war - all the prejudices that you had made against me in all that time – and that was wrong. That wasn’t who I was. You needed to erase that predetermined image of me as quickly as possible, so that it didn’t poison anything.  
  
I think it was because all our friends were married already. I think it was because you enjoyed the married feeling. I think it was because you couldn’t stand to not understand something as soon as you crossed its path.  
  
I think it was because you brought me something that I hated on my birthday.


	5. Agony

**Agony** , _n_

The nurse thought that I might like to experience the sensation of labour through a 'simulation'. You thought it was hilarious.

It was the one time I was okay with you crying.


	6. Alacrity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I temporarily forgot my alphabet and uploaded Aloof before Alacrity in my excitement. I've put it up now before this, so please read it if you haven't yet!
> 
> Sorry for the problem!

**Alacrity,** _n_

We had spoken about having a child a few weeks before, and with your announcement this morning, I suppose tonight was the night that we began.

You stood by the window, bare skin bathed in moonlight from the opened windows and undrawn curtains, looking wonderfully ethereal. You were chastising me for being so slow in undressing, not wanting to waste any time not trying to conceive, as if any second that passes takes the opportunity with it. It wasn't that you were overtly broody or baby-mad that you were acting with haste (which might be something that anyone else in this moment may have thought about you), but because it was _me._ It wasn't long ago that you had deemed me to be The One that we had joked about that first date, and since then I think that you had decided that you wanted a piece of both of us that would showcase our love for each other. A baby.

I moved slowly, not because having a child was something that I was against, or because I was put off by your brusqueness of the whole situation, but because it was so surreal of a thing to be happening that I had to remember it. I had to remember every part of it.

"Tonight," I promised, carrying you to the bed. "It will happen tonight." It was a stupid promise to make.

You laughed, peppering kisses across my face. You only ever did that when you were excited. "Tonight," you confirmed.

It did happen that night, as luck would have it, but it didn't last long.


	7. Aloof

**Aloof** , _adj_

Sometimes we’d be arguing, and then suddenly we wouldn’t be _just_ arguing anymore. You withdraw from the argument without truly leaving, and often I won’t realise that you have until it’s too late, until we’ve reached the point where I’d be wasting my breath instead of fixing things.

There’s no such thing as ‘winning’ an argument, because to reach that point, you would’ve hurt the other person. You received no trophy, no prize, and no royalties. In reality, you can only ever lose.

I’d win, but at the cost of you.


	8. Ameliorate

**Ameliorate,** _v_

I stopped engaging in fights and provoking them. It was difficult and I failed a couple of times, but you were always there to fix me.

Sometimes the frustration was still so raw that I wanted to quietly tell you that I hadn’t lost, that the other person had come off slightly worse or that we were stopped before any real damage could be done or that I was restrained by the others without any way to defend myself. Maybe that would’ve made it worse - maybe it was better that I never did, but maybe I should’ve.

But it didn’t matter: you were always there to fix me.

There to reset the broken nose; to hand me the frozen peas or steak; to clean the blood and to kiss the bruises and to remind me that I was loved, that I _could_ be loved.

There, next to me, holding my hand and digging your nails into my skin to provide a distraction from the taunts on the street; there you were tugging me along with you, away from those that wanted a fight, and talking idly about something new or something that you’ve mentioned a hundred times providing me with something to concentrate on; kissing me in front of everyone. There, always hovering near me, listening, when we were outside together – _always_ taking us outside and not letting their hatred stop us from living - and strolling back when there looked like trouble. There, letting me handle my own fights, but stepping in when it was getting too far.

Sometimes you were the best thing that could’ve happened. 


	9. Asinine

**Asinine,** _adj_

This was possibly our fifth – or sixth – date; numerous enough that by this point we had stopped counting the number of times that we had gone out together. We were at your house, curled up on the sofa together with red wine sitting on the table amongst scattered Chinese takeaway cartons, open and empty; playing on your _television_ was a film that you had chosen tonight, after pointedly wondering whether I could feel emotion and surprising you with the fact that I had never seen a Muggle film.

I wasn’t exactly crying like you wanted, like you were, but I clutched you that bit harder.

“That was a very moving documentary, sweetheart,” I said, rubbing my hands along your back. I used to call you _sweetheart_ a lot at the beginning. “I really enjoyed it.”

You wiped under your eyes with the sleeves of your jumper. They were damp and slightly red; but you were pretty even when you were sad. “What?” You said meekly.

“ _Titanic,”_ I said. “Your documentary. It was quite wonderful.”

You blinked slowly, tears still dripping down your face. I reached out to wipe one away, but you caught my wrist in your hand and looked at me very seriously. “You’re joking,” you said.

“No.” I frowned. “What? Am I not allowed to like this?”

She released his hand. “Of course you are. I just – never imagined that you would like such a romantic…thing, Draco darling.” The _darling_ at the end of my name also slowly disappeared over time, but at this moment you said it with an innocent upwards pull of your lips, as if it was all a joke – even though I said that I wasn’t. As if being a _darling_ wasn’t a burden.

You wiped your eyes again.

“Do you have any others?” I asked.

You smiled then, and leaned up to kiss me on my mouth; I was surprised, but I kissed you anyway. After a few moments I let you go, and you put in _The Sound of Music._ We watched films until we fell asleep like that, TV playing as we leaned on and held each other, curled under a chequered blanket. This was also the first time that we had fallen asleep together.

And not once did you tell me that any of it wasn’t real.


	10. Austere

**Austere,** _adj_

For 7 weeks you were pregnant and then you just – weren’t.


	11. Awhile

**Awhile,** _adv_

I blinked against my better judgement. What if after my eyes had reopened after that split second that it took to blink, you had already vanished?

“You’re going,” I said dumbly. It was supposed to be a statement, but it sounded more like a question. I didn’t want it to be a question; if it was a question, you’d be inclined to answer it, and I didn’t really want to know the answer. I could see you were leaving just fine.

“You know I’m going,” you said.

I swallowed and refrained from stepping forward. I’d done enough already, and pleading you to stay was only going to push you away more; besides, there was broken glass scattered on the floor, acting as a boundary between the both of us, and I was without shoes. You just needed some space, I tried to remind myself; we both needed some space.

“How long are you going to be gone?”

“Awhile.”

I didn’t know how long awhile was – and nor did anyone who I mentioned it to – but I waited for the moment that “awhile” ran out and you returned, or you came back to collect your things and leave forever.

For “awhile”, I sat on the sofa we had brought together, radio and TV off so that I could hear any sound of your return, past midnight or until I eventually fell asleep there. For “awhile”, I continued to buy your favourite foods and brands, then throwing them out when they went past their expiry, and starting all over again. For “awhile”, I went over the baby names we had circled so that when you returned, I could tell you that I had finally made a decision about it.

For “awhile”, life was shit and filled with unreasonable hope.


	12. Baffle

**Baffle,** _v_

You and I stood, bathed in orange light, under a lamppost that was right outside your house. My blazer was too big and so hung loosely off your shoulders; you had to keep it on by holding onto the shoulder pads. I was leaning against the lamppost, looking down at you curiously, the idea of my dress shirt getting ruined by the grime on the pole at the far back of my mind.

This was the first date. You were suspicious and beautiful.

And you kissed _me_ first. I had no idea how you managed to reach my lips, as short as you were (even in your heels), and I was surprised that you should kiss me first – or kiss me at all after the night that we had had.

Yet you had, and it wasn’t a problem. Not a problem at all. I’d been wanting to do it since I picked you up hours ago, at this exact spot, with the setting sun bathing us in a different kind of orange.

You, my love, always knew what you wanted, and you weren’t going to wait for me to catch up. You kissed me first; I met your parents first; you declared your love before me; you suggested living together first; you suggested children first. I never even had a shot at proposing to you, before the words were coming from your own mouth.

How did you know that it would be okay to do all these things? How did you know that we were alright every time, when I couldn’t even see it myself sometimes?

Dear Hermione, my dear Hermione. How were you so Gryffindor all the time?


	13. Ballad

**Ballad** , _n_

On our first holiday away together, we rented a car and just drove. Drove across all of Britain, going to wherever we wanted, sometimes sleeping in the car at service stations when we were running out of money or lost, occasionally taking a night at a hotel or bed a breakfast when we became stale and far too unclean to continue in each other’s presence. But we also had a tent in the back of the car at your insistence, where we spent some nights under the stars and pressing close to each other to keep warm.

During this time, we listened to a lot of radio. It filled the silence when we were angry with each other, fed up with one another’s presence after spending hours in the car and trying to direct ourselves to places with a map that neither of us could read very well. It was one of these moments, as we were cruising down the M4, when a rather upbeat song played on the radio, completely juxtaposing the mood, and making me clench my jaw; until that point, it had only been slow ballads that mourned the loss of their love, which was fine enough for the both of us. I had looked over to you, to see if you would change the radio station so we could get back to the mellow crooning of our usual artists, but you were asleep. I kept the song on.

By the time it finished, our car was parked in a layby and my head was pressed against the steering wheel, wishing that you had been awake to hear it. But you weren’t, and I had to continue driving; all I could do was hope that it was played again when you were awake.

And it did. You liked it, I think (I never asked, but you must’ve, if you joked about it becoming our wedding song), and it eventually played so many times in our presence during important and mundane moments, that it became _our_ ballad. Sometimes, when we were alone together, we’d sing or hum it.

Three years later, when we did this again, there was another song (which you were awake for this time). Not a ballad, but equally one that seemed to explain us. More upbeat, more our style. It couldn’t be our wedding song, however - we were going for a traditional slow dance – but, five years later, when our first child was being born, we played it; you held my hand and smiled at the irony and memory.


	14. Banal

**Banal** , _adj_

“I’m sorry.” 


	15. Barre

**Barre** , _n_

How many hours must I spend, watching our daughter practicing her ballet at the barre with a fake enjoyment (despite being terribly wonderful at ballet), and attending her recitals with you – buying her new tutus and pointe shoes and leotards, taking us all out to evenings at the Royal Opera House for ballet performances (most recently being Swan Lake), and following the English National Ballet for any upcoming performances – until she _finally_ tells you that she would rather enter Quidditch training, and have even _more_ money spent on her?


	16. Bathetic

**Bathetic,** _adj_

The past two weeks were filled with knowing looks to each other as we moved around our apartment.

“Feeling sick _again_ , darling?” my eyes would say when you exited the bathroom, after you suddenly rushed to enter it.

“Oncoming period,” you would say aloud, but I know by now that this never happened around the time of your period; you were never _sick._ You’d smile secretively, walking over to me, and unload the fridge with everything you needed for an English Breakfast – recently, a particular craving of yours. I’d take over, tell you to go sit on one of the stools in the breakfast bar, and your eyes would say “Yes, sick again _._ We mustn’t lose ourselves, dear. You remember what happened.”

Your miscarriage was a few, dark months ago, and was regularly at the forefront of both of our minds – I suspect yours more than mine, despite our joint and equal love for it – and yet, though we tried not to lose ourselves in this new madness – of the prospect of you possibly, hopefully, being pregnant again - we couldn’t stop this from becoming all we thought about, all we prepared for. _This is it,_ something seemed to whisper in the air. _Your baby._

Our evenings were spent with us curled on the sofa together; you sleeping, my arm wrapped around your waist and my fingers tapping an old lullaby on your stomach, whilst I searched the local paper for nearby houses, something bigger than what we were living in, for when we’d eventually need to move out. During the day, when we watched the news or we met new people or when we were readings and we’d come across a name, something that we hadn’t considered before, we’d inform the other of this lovely name that we had just heard. I began to do some repairs around the apartment – minor, little things, like fixing the light in the fridge and putting the shower curtain back up – though you would chastise me for it, accusing me for getting ahead of myself before we even _knew._

And so, days later, here we were once more. You had locked yourself in the bathroom with the pregnancy test, and I was in the bedroom, sat on the floor with my back against the wall, forehead touching my knees, as I prayed that it was positive, as I envisioned your reaction when the door opened and you told me that it was positive. You would open the door, waving the stick in the air, crying and laughing and emphatically saying “a baby, darling! _A baby!”_ as you had the first time; I would take you into my arms carefully, also laughing and teary, and we would phone and owl everyone we knew to tell them the news. I’d take you to that restaurant that you loved, and pay for anything that you wanted.

When, finally, you did open the door, you were crying – but you weren’t laughing. I scrambled to my feet, and went over to you, wiping away your tears; the pregnancy stick was held tightly in your hands. “No?”

You shook your head, lips moving, saying words that I couldn’t hear.


	17. Baulk

**Baulk** , _v_

"I'm not leaving you," you said. "We're fine together, aren't we? Draco, darling, listen to me. _We're fine._ You're not ruining my life."

I shook my head, resigned, and pressed the bag of frozen peas harder to my jaw.

Why did they always target my jaw?


	18. Beguile

**Beguile,** _v_

After that first meeting, that first date, I knew that I had to find a way to see you again. I knew that I had to charm you, to show you that I was better than what you had seen that day, for you to even consider it.

I sent bouquets to your office at the beginning of every week, so that they could replace the previous week's ones, that were probably already dying, and so that I didn't clog up your workspace with what you might see as unnecessary items. I made sure that you knew it was me who sent them, and chose a different flower for a different week. I didn't spend excessive amounts of money on them; I knew that that wouldn't sway you at all, and you'd think me stupid, but I spent _enough._

I sent you owls with short notes, so that it didn't interfere with your workload when you decided to answer or read them. They were meaningless things, really, but they were still important.

_Did you like the flowers today? Say the word, and I will stop sending them._

_How is your day today, Hermione?_

_Are you free for lunch?_

_I heard that one of your Bills was passed. May I offer my congratulations; you are truly admirable._

I hoped and prayed that I wasn't bothering you, and that this courting was actually working – and then I received a surprise visit from you, and then second date was confirmed.


	19. Bereavement

**Bereavement,** _n_

I think this broke you a little bit; irreparably damaged a piece of your heart and soul. The nurse said that it wasn’t our fault, that these things just happen sometimes, but I think you placed the blame upon yourself regardless, and even I have to admit what she told us sounded rehearsed and fake. She suggested that we have a funeral for the foetus that we lost, that we dig a hole in our card and bury letters that we wanted our child to have. I didn’t think that it was a bad idea, that it must help some people come to terms with the idea of losing whatever they had; I was eager to try it – I was eager to try anything that might help you. You, however, politely declined the idea and that was that.

I took you home and made you a cup of tea. You sat silent and still, in a daze, on the sofa; the tea became cold, untouched on the coffee table, as you continued to stare at the wall. I sat closely beside you; I knew that this was where my actions would affect the rest of the future that we had together, but I don’t think that you recognised that I was there. You did not say a word to me or anyone for days.

That was until I came home from work one day, and you were nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, you appeared, arms laden with the small things we had already brought for our child as eager first-time parents; the corner of your mouth quirked up a bit and you moved past me to exit the house. “I’m done crying,” you said.

I don’t think you were, really, at that point, and I wished that I had pushed for the funeral idea, but I let you be as best as I could. You put on a cool and brave façade, making it seem almost like you were the same person as before, but on some level I think that we both knew that you weren’t. I don’t think that I was either.


End file.
